


Dying Flowers

by RandomStuff_7739



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, Good W. D. Gaster, Hanahaki Disease, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, One Shot, Parent W. D. Gaster, Past Child Abuse, Sad Ending, Sad Papyrus (Undertale), Self-Hatred, Sort Of, Suicide, Younger Brother Papyrus (Undertale), but whatever I guess, i edited this a million times and i still don’t like it at all, i mean he’s nice, my version of gaster is heavily based off of handplates i’m sorry, some things make no sense without context, well dings used to be not so nice lemme say that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-25
Updated: 2020-03-25
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23316823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomStuff_7739/pseuds/RandomStuff_7739
Summary: Sans, who ran away from home with his brother at the age of 10, falls in love with a customer he met at the coffeeshop he works at.He couldn’t have imagined the consequences.
Relationships: Papyrus & Sans (Undertale), W. D. Gaster & Papyrus, W. D. Gaster & Papyrus & Sans, W. D. Gaster & Sans
Comments: 3
Kudos: 33





	Dying Flowers

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [A dead flower.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238691) by [MysterySusu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysterySusu/pseuds/MysterySusu). 



> This was based off MysterySusu, and off of her own work. This isn’t my best writing, but oh well ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Sans was going to die.

 _that’s it,_ he thought to himself, staring at the wilted, blackened rose in his hand that he had just coughed up. _that’s what all of this was._

It was a fact, a simple one. He was going to die, and he was going to leave his brother all alone.

He tossed the dead flower in the bin. He didn’t want to look at it any longer.

He paced back and forth, trembling. He needed to calm down—he already knew what he had to do, after all. He shouldn't have to worry after that. He shouldn't have to worry ever again.

Recently, Sans had discovered he had the hanahaki disease—the cause of the flowers that he had been coughing up. The cause that cannot be cured unless the person he loved happens to love him back. 

Or, if he accepted a surgery to get rid of them.

He shook his head so quickly at the last thought, his neck almost snapped.

 _no_.

He couldn't do that. Not to Papyrus— _never._ He’d rather die than do something like that to him. What was the point of living if you couldn’t care about _anyone?_

Even his little brother?  
  
He laughed humorlessly. He really was going to die. 

Oh well. He deserved it—he really did. He was so, so stupid and foolish, after all. How could he do that? _Why did he do that?_ He was so, so _stupid_ to fall in love, because he was sure she would never love him back. She just talked to him out of pity.

Did he really think she would care about him? 

He was pathetic. He wasted his whole life on nothing—on just an unachievable _fantasy._

And Papyrus would have to pay the price. He really didn’t deserve a brother like him. A selfish, foolish so-called brother. He deserved someone much, much better—and he knew for a fact that he could never be that someone.

“stupid, stupid feelings,” he muttered angrily, putting his head down at the table. He wished he never had them.

_but i couldn't live without them._

He paused for a second.

He didn't have to live, did he now?

He could leave Papyrus with Ga—...his father. He would take better care of him; at least, that's what he was hoping for. 

Anything would be better than having Papyrus stay with someone like him.

He wouldn't have to live with his pathetic older brother anymore. He deserved to have a better life, to get everything he wanted, to get into a good school and have a nice, comfortable bed to sleep on, and a good place to live—

And...and to have the costume he’d always wanted. The one that'd make him 'look like a hero.'

He didn't even need a costume to be a hero, really. He was already one without it.

He felt tears drip down his cheeks, and he wiped them away, staring at his now damp sleeve.

 _huh,_ he thought to himself, his eyesockets dark and empty. _i’m crying._

He got up from his place at the kitchen, and went to his bedroom—the one he and Papyrus shared. It felt less like walking, really, and more as if he were drifting—as if he were already dead, and simply floating around like a ghost.

He sat back down on his bed, pulling his knees close to his chest. 

He felt the tears come down faster, and he allowed them to fall, burying his face in his arms and letting out a hiccuping sob.

He cried like a small child. It was ironic—he never had someone to care for him when he really was a child. It was pathetic, really—he chuckled dryly, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling. 

He just wished it were easier. He really did.

He got up, going back to the kitchen, and opened one of the drawers—he pulled out one of the knives, wrapping his phalanges around the cool handle, going to the bathroom.

His hands were shaking, his whole body was shaking.

It didn't matter.

He stared at the blade in his hand, the hand that was trembling so much it nearly hurt to look at. 

He shook his head, setting the knife down on the sink, slipping out of his shirt and glancing into the mirror.

There were vines wrapped around his ribcage, thorns scratching at his bones. He was accustomed to the pain, at this point.

His eyes were immediately drawn to the roses growing through his bones. They were gorgeous—most of them, at least, a light blue, the bases of which were a pure white colour. The others were blackened and dead.

He hated those roses. He really hated them. 

_god, why was everything so unfair?_

He wondered, for a moment, if he were being punished. He wasn’t sure of what he did, but whatever it was, he wished he could fix it. That he could get better, and stay alive, and be there for his brother and be able to love without some stupid flowers taking root in his SOUL and ruining everything.

He'd never know. Maybe he didn't even do anything, and the universe he was always so fascinated with was just cruel and unforgiving, deciding to pick an unlucky skeleton to place its suffering on.

_it doesn't matter._

He picked the knife back up, glancing at his reflection in the blade. His eyes were dark and teary—he seemed more tired than he usually was, bags underneath his eyes and teartracks staining his cheeks.

He wanted to see his brother before he left, but there wasn’t much he could do about it. He didn’t _want_ to leave—he only wanted to stay with him. Something previously so simple was now so impossible.

He knew he couldn't let himself stay. Not when he'd just become an empty shell, incapable of loving. Unable to care.

He shivered at the thought of it, tears beginning to fall again. But he sighed, wiping them away.

He firmly gripped the knife, reaching into his ribcage, his hand wrapping around his SOUL. He pulled it out, wincing as his hand and SOUL got scratched by the thorns, his working eye glowing a faint, greyish purple.

It looked damaged. Broken.

_just like me._

He laughed at that slightly, raising his hand. It trembled, as if hesitant to do the task Sans was about to give it.

He closed his eyes, glowing slightly brighter—he took a deep, shaky breath, and looked at his SOUL one last time.

It didn't even hurt.

* * *

Papyrus was used to walking home from school by himself. Usually, his brother would come to pick him up, but occasionally he would work extra hours at the coffeeshop to make them a bit of extra money.

He didn’t mind, really. As much as he loved being with his older brother, walking home alone was nice—he didn’t have anybody to talk to, so he hummed a mindless tune, watching his surroundings as he passed them.

It was autumn, his favourite season; so the trees were beautiful shades of orange and red and yellow, that matched his scarf and his eyeglow, leaves falling off of the branches and onto the ground, where he could step on them and hear the soft crunching noise they each made. The air was cool—there were a few white clouds in the sky, and a couple of dark ones off in the distance.

He smiled. His brother and his dad both loved the rain—he’d have to enjoy it with them both later.

He always loved the colour of the sky. It was a brilliant blue in the daytime, that reminded him of his brother’s eyeglowing—it reassured him, even when he wasn’t worried. It made him feel safe.

Recently, however, he had grown a bit uneasy because of it.

It was the same blue of the flowers that Sans continued to cough up. And it worried him, to no end.

He knew Sans was in love. And he knew who he was in love with. It wasn’t very hard to figure out—the girl at the coffeeshop _was_ pretty, and she was very nice as well—he had gotten Papyrus his new scarf, after all.

Sans talked about her often. Papyrus loved it when he did—the way his face would light up, his gestures would become more animated, his smile becoming more real whenever he thought of her—and of course, there were the little hearts that his eyelights would turn into. 

Papyrus never pointed any of these things out. He was afraid of them stopping.

What frustrated him was that Sans wouldn’t tell her. He couldn’t get better unless she loved him back—and how was she going to do that if she didn’t know? He knew that Sans could get a surgery to remove the flowers, but it scared him. He loved his brother—knowing that his brother wouldn’t be able to love him back was heartbreaking.

Still. A loveless Sans was better than no Sans at all. He would stick with him no matter what.

He pulled the keys out of his pocket, fumbling with them a bit, before unlocking the door and entering.

He noticed Sans’ hoodie on the couch, and frowned slightly.

_WHY DIDN’T HE COME IF HE WAS HOME?_

“SANS?” he called, putting down his bag. “SANS, WHERE ARE YOU? I KNOW YOU’RE HERE.”

He felt his chest twist slightly in nervousness, but he shoved it down, swallowing anxiously as he checked in the bedroom. He wasn’t there.

“SANS, PLEASE...YOU’RE SCARING ME,” he mumbled, mostly to himself, his hands starting to tremble. “WHERE ARE YOU? IT’S NOT LIKE OUR HOUSE IS VERY BIG…”

He tested the bathroom. It was unlocked.

He gently opened the door.

“SA—”

He froze, his eyesockets widening.

_NO._

The floor was covered in a thin layer of fine dust—there were roses and petals scattered within it, all connected by a tangle of thorny vines.

His eyes fell upon an ashy blade on the ground, and he let out a whimpering sob, covering his mouth and slumping against the wall.

“SANS…”

He buried his face in his hands, sobbing, his breathing erratic and shallow.

His brother was gone.

He didn’t even get the chance to see him before it all ended.

He wasn’t going to get the chance to see him ever again.

He didn’t know how long he had sat there, leaning against the door, crying, his eyesockets glowing such a strong grey that they nearly hurt. His sobs were so relentless—they wouldn’t _stop_ —he could barely manage to get in a breath of air.

His SOUL ached. Everything did, really, but his SOUL most of all.

When he finally managed to breathe, he shakily pushed himself back up—before bending down and picking up one of the flowers in the dust, his hands trembling.

_HANAHAKI FLOWERS DON’T DIE FROM CAUSES UNRELATED TO THE DISEASE, DO THEY?_

He wasn’t sure. But he picked it up, his hands trembling, and laced the stem around his collarbone.

The thorns scratched him painfully, but he didn’t care. He was never going to take it off.

_A JAR. I NEED A JAR._

He rushed into the kitchen, and dug through the cabinets—eventually finding a clear, glass jar with a matching lid. It was a bit small, but it would do.

He swept the dust and roses inside, closing it tightly, hugging it close to his chest, tears threatening to fall again. He then rushed over to the couch, digging through his brother’s hoodie pocket.

His phone.

He knew Sans’ password. He never minded that he did—but he would change it, over and over. It was like a number puzzle that he could solve.

Sans was always so proud when he managed to do it.

He was glad that Sans hadn’t changed it since last time—shakily opening the keypad, he tapped in the second phone number he knew, and held it to his ear, hugging Sans close and trembling.

“Sans? What is it?”  
  
He let out a sob.

“HE’S NOT HERE,” he cried, his words barely comprehensible through his tears. “HE’S GONE, DAD. SANS IS GONE.”

“Papyrus, I—how? The disease wouldn’t have killed him, he still had time left—”  
  
“THERE WAS A KNIFE IN THE BATHROOM,” he said, his voice breaking. “NEXT TO HIS DUST.”

His father was silent for a moment.

“I’m going to be there soon,” he eventually said, his voice trembling. “Wait for me.”

Papyrus couldn’t muster the effort to do anything but nod weakly.

He sat down, hanging up, letting the phone fall from his hand as he hugged the jar close to his chest. He could feel tears fall down his hollow cheekbones, barely able to gather the energy required to lift his hand to wipe them away.

He curled up, still hugging his brother, closing his eyes.

It didn’t take him very long to fall asleep.

* * *

His son was dead.

His son was _dead._

He had lost so many people he loved already. It almost felt as if the world were taunting him, ever since the War, ripping everyone and everything he loved away from him until he had nothing left.

No matter how many times it happened, it still hurt. It hurt to the point where he nearly couldn’t take it—but he was the adult here. He had a responsibility to take care of everything from now on—he couldn’t break down now.

The door was unlocked.

He opened it, a bit afraid of what was on the other side.

“Papyrus?” he whispered softly, stepping into the tiny apartment.

His son was curled up on the couch, his arms around what seemed to be a jar. He realized, with a bit of nausea, that it was full of dust and roses—but he wouldn’t take it away. It was clear that it was all he had.

Papyrus was asleep, his cheekbones stained with tears, his eyebrows knitted together in what seemed to be distress.

He sighed softly, and picked him up. He jolted, slightly, upon noticing the blue rose curled around his collarbone, just behind his red scarf.

He shifted Papyrus in his arms to hold him better, carrying him out of the house. Gaster was too nervous for his own good.

Papyrus blearily blinked his eyesockets open, after a few moments, looking at him.

“D-DAD…?”

“Yes, it’s me,” he murmured, holding him a bit closer to his chest. Papyrus hugged him tightly, still holding the dust-filled jar, burying his face into his neck.

He tensed slightly when he heard the soft, hiccuping sobs.

“Papyrus?”

“I WANT HIM BACK,” he sobbed, beginning to tremble. “WHY DID HE DO THAT? I JUST WANT MY BROTHER BACK…”

“...He got hopeless,” he muttered. “That’s my guess, at least. He didn’t think he’d be loved in return, and he didn’t want the surgery...he decided to take his own life before the disease did it for him.”

He swallowed, his throat choking up slightly as Papyrus let out another sob.

“I MISS HIM,” he whimpered softly, hugging tighter. “I MISS HIM SO MUCH. WHY DID HE HAVE TO LEAVE? I CAN’T LIVE WITHOUT HIM…”

He stroked his son’s back gently, and he melted into it, crying harder, making his SOUL twist and ache.

“I know,” he mumbled, “I know. It’s going to hurt for a long time. I’m sorry. Just breathe, all right? Count to ten. It’s going to be fine.”

“IT’S NOT,” he sobbed softly, shaking. “IT’S NEVER GOING TO BE AGAIN.”

He couldn’t manage a proper answer.


End file.
